


Learning Curves

by nwhepcat



Series: Thelma & Louise 'verse [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Gender or Sex Swap, Spells & Enchantments
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-18
Updated: 2013-11-18
Packaged: 2018-01-01 23:33:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1049894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nwhepcat/pseuds/nwhepcat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Summary: John Winchester knows damn little about women, which is kind of a problem since Dean has suddenly and permanently become one. Fortunately, he knows someone who knows a bit more on the subject.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Learning Curves

Dean slouched in the passenger seat, watching all the flat nothing of Iowa roll by. He wondered how people living here managed not to blow their brains out, but maybe that was just his state of mind talking. It was bad enough that Dad was casting troubled glances his way -- which would have said a lot one month ago, but since his Number One Son had taken to the curvy (not to mention dickless) side of the street, Dad had been showing a lot more sensitivity. Weird. Weird and unsettling.

Dad was worried enough that he'd offered Dean the keys to the Impala as they left the hash house where they'd had breakfast. Dean had just said, "Nah, I don't feel much like it," which clearly concerned him even more. So he'd suspended the _driver picks the music_ rule and let Dean listen to whatever he wanted. Not that it was all that much different from what Dad liked.

Dean's fingers twitched restlessly. His usual coping mechanism on a long, boring drive was to pick at the hole in his latest pair of thrift store jeans, but he was wearing a brand new pair from Wal-Mart. It had taken a helluva lot of screwing around to find his girl size -- why women's clothes had stupid sizes like 8 or 11 instead of nice normal inch-related sizes was another one of the mysteries of the female world. It was just a warning sign, Dean suspected, that everything about his new and permanent life as a girl was going to be complicated as hell.

As his dad took the off ramp toward Osceola, Dean asked, "Where are we headed, anyway?" Dad hadn't mentioned a job in several days.

"Lunch, right now," his father said. "Then to Lawrence."

Dean sat up abruptly. "Seriously?"

Dad nodded, looking grim. "There's someone there I think you should meet."

That whole section of Kansas might as well have been a nuclear blast zone, for the wide berth they always gave it. Dean had never needed to ask why -- his life as well as Dad's had been blown to smithereens there. 

His dad found a diner off the interstate that didn't smack them in the face with the smell of rancid frying oil when they stepped out into the parking lot, so they headed on inside. Dean had grown tired of the tight Ace bandage binding his rack, so he'd left it off, and now was aware of the sway and bounce of his new breasts as he strode into the diner. From the gazes that fastened onto him, he guessed he wasn't the only one aware of them. He tugged his jacket tighter around his body.

Most of the gazes skittered away again when Dad came to a stop beside him. The only waitress in sight looked too busy flirting with the old geezers' table, so dad grabbed up a pair of menus from the rack by the cashier and guided Dean toward an empty booth.

Dean scooted in against the wall and pressed his palms against his eyes. He still felt so edgy and raw after the night the curse finished its long remaking of his body that the lights and the people in the diner were almost more than he could take.

"You cold, son?" Dad asked. He didn't wait for an answer before he shucked out of his leather jacket and put it over Dean's shoulders. Dean gratefully settled into it, feeling instantly armored as he threaded his arms through the sleeves. 

Dad slid into the booth across from him and opened his menu. Dean stared at his, unseeing, as his dad started speaking about food, but none of it penetrated. 

"Son," Dad said again, after a hush had fallen.

Dean looked up to find the waitress eying him expectantly. She was young and hot despite the after-market hardware implanted in one nostril and all along the shell of her ear. He dredged up an approximation of his usual pretty waitress smile.

"Sun," she said. "That's a really pretty name. Is it short for something?"

He gave her a ghost of his shit-eating grin. "Sunshine. A little memento of Dad's hippie days."

She told him again that it was pretty, then took his order for a cheeseburger and fries and departed.

"Hippie days, my ass," Dad growled, but he seemed a little relieved that Dean had showed some ability to needle him.

"It brings up a question, though," Dean said. "What do we call me now? Dean doesn't exactly cut it."

"You were named after your grandmother," Dad said. "Did you know that?"

Dean blinked. "No." His dad had told him damn little about anything not related to hunting and survival. Dean knew exactly zero about any of his grandparents. "Your mom?"

"No. Your mom's mother. Her name was Deanna. You could go by that." 

Though it felt like throwing away an unexpected gift, Dean shook his head. "It sounds off to me. I think the difference between Dean and De _An_ na might make us stumble if we were in some pressured situation. They sound just different enough." Dean didn't think he'd ever before suggested his father could be capable of stumbling under pressure, and he waited for a sharp retort.

Dad considered it. "You've got a point. There's less likelihood of a screw-up if we go with something completely different."

Though this was exactly what he was angling for, Dean felt a growing weight in the pit of his stomach at this prospect. Unable to look at his dad, he spun the ring on his index finger. 

"But that feels like one more thing you've lost, doesn't it?" his dad asked.

"Yeah," he said, his voice a low rasp.

Just then the waitress arrived with their food, spreading it out on the table in front of them and pulling a ketchup bottle and steak sauce from the deep pocket of her apron. "Anything else I can get you?"

"No thanks, we're good," his dad said. After she'd gone, he said, "Well, maybe she could give you a name. What do you think of Sun? Short for Sunny, none of this Sunshine crap."

Poking a French fry into a pool of ketchup, Dean mulled it over. "I'm pretty sure I could handle other people calling me son better than I could handle you calling me Debbie or Irene or some shit."

As Dad nodded his agreement, Dean felt one small pressure point unknotting. It wasn't a huge relief, but he'd take it.

***

It was ridiculous to think he'd remember any of the streets or buildings in Lawrence, but that didn't stop Dean from leaning forward in his seat as he looked around, as if he might.

Dad had worn the same grim expression since they'd gotten back in the car, and Dean doubted it had anything to do with the gusting snowstorm that had started while they were eating. Dean wondered who the hell it was they were going to see. Maybe Bobby Singer had come up with someone who might be able to cure the curse, but judging by the look on Dad's face it wasn't going to be that simple. Maybe it was one of those cure-or-die things. He tried to think up some other scenarios but came up empty, and he didn't actually believe the cure-or-die theory, not after the pep talk Dad had given him back when the curse hit.

A thought occurred to him. "Are we going back to our street?"

"No," Dad said sharply, but didn't elaborate.

Dean let out a relieved breath. Whether it was a burned out shell or an empty lot or was now a cookie-cutter modern house built where the old place had stood, this was one more absence Dean didn't need. 

The tension level inside the Impala rose as Dad turned onto a neighborhood street lined with a mix of two-family houses and Victorians, all of them well kept up, as far as he could tell in the snow. Though there were people out with shovels and snowblowers trying to keep up with the storm, they were so bundled up Dean couldn't tell much about them. 

Dad pulled the car up in front of a Victorian home that hadn't yet had its sidewalk cleared and killed the engine. The lines on his face seemed to deepen as he regarded the house, then he squared his shoulders and said, "C'mon, son" in this new, gentler voice he'd aquired. They picked their way past a sign in the yard, impossible to read because of wind-driven snow covering its facade. It was painted wood, so it had to be some kind of business sign rather than a political or for sale sign. 

Hunching into his dad's leather jacket, Dean followed him down the path to the wrap around porch. The door chime had hardly died away when the front door opened. The black woman who answered the door must have been watching them come up the walk, since she was already calling Dad's name as the door swung open. "John Eric Winchester, what part of 'don't be a stranger' is beyond your comprehension?" 

Before Dad even had time to react she grabbed his arm and dragged him across the threshhold into a hug. Of all the unknown things Dean had braced himself for, nothing remotely like this had occurred to him. Releasing Dad, she said to Dean, "Well get in here, child. Close the door and your mouth."

As he stomped the show off his boots and stepped inside, Dean eyed her as closely as he thought he dared, trying to figure out who this woman was who a) was someone he'd never seen before and b) clearly knew his dad fairly well. Her hair was natural, not close-cropped against her skull but short, kept back by a long, narrow scarf in a yellow and brick print. Diamond studs glinted in her ears, one in each lobe and a second up into the cartilage on each side. Dean had found he had trouble guessing the age of some black people, always underestimating -- by a lot -- and this was true of the woman before him. She was maybe somewhere between 19 and 62. Maybe.

"Missouri," his dad said, "this is my son, Dean."

Dean's head snapped toward Dad so fast he could hear his neck pop. 

"Don't worry," she said, her voice breathy and sweet for a woman of her size. "Your daddy knows I already knew that."

"This is Missouri Mosely, son. She's a psychic."

Dean managed to restrain himself from blurting, _You believe in this bullshit?_

"It's not belief if you've had proof; it's knowledge," Missouri said mildly, then reached to grab Dean's shoulders. "Stop that shuffling and let me look at you." Her scrutiny was a little too thorough for Dean, but it finally ended with Missouri's declaration, "My you've grown tall."

"That's not all I've grown," Dean muttered to the floor. 

Letting him go, she turned back to his dad. "John, why don't you make yourself useful and clear the walk? Shovel's in the garage. Dean and I are going to make some hot chocolate."

Dean almost asked if there was any coffee instead, but before his mouth overtook his brain, he realized he actually would prefer the cocoa. Even more unsettling was the sight of his old man hustling to obey Missouri's order without question. This woman had some _serious_ mojo.

"Take those boots off," she commanded, and Dean followed his dad's example by instantly complying. He trailed behind her into the kitchen, where she waved him into a chair at the table. "Aren't you going to take that jacket off?"

"No ma'am," Dean said firmly. 

She settled into a chair at the next side of the square table. "You've been through a lot," she said gently in her honeyed accent.

Dean shrugged, his dad's leather jacket a heavy weight across his shoulders. 

"Would you like to tell me about it?"

He looked up at her. "You haven't picked up the whole thing from my head?"

"Trauma makes kind of a jumble in people's heads. It's a lot like trying to watch one pair of socks through a whole dryer cycle. And besides, sometimes the talking is more important than anything I have to say. Half the people I see for psychic readings need to talk more than they need any advice I've got."

There was a long moment of silence, broken only by the hum of the refrigerator and the rhythmic scrape of a snow shovel on concrete. Finally Dean said, "I was being kind of a douchy man-about-town around Christmas week. Someone took it the wrong way. So I've spent the last few weeks turning into a girl."

"You angered someone with a lot of power."

"Yeah, I know how to pick 'em." 

Missouri regarded Dean for a long moment, which was not as uncomfortable as her first inspection of him. There was so much sympathy and warmth in her eyes that he didn't feel her psychic regard as an intrusion. "You don't know why your daddy brought you here, do you?"

Dean affected his dad's voice, a low rumble like the Impala's idle, though the effect was ruined by Dean's new vocal range. "There's someone in Lawrence I want you to meet." He planted his hands on the table and faked rising from his chair. "So I guess my work here is done."

The full-bodied laugh that issued from her startled him. "Well, mind-reading _is_ a useful skill with that man."

"You're tapped into some power yourself," Dean said. "I guess he brought me here to see if I can be fixed."

She shook her head. "No, Dean. Close as I can tell, he wants you to learn from me."

"What, the psychic thing? I thought you had to be born that way, or fall off a ladder and break your head or something."

A flicker of surprise crossed Missouri's face, which sent a smug little thrill through Dean at having put it there with an obscure piece of knowledge gleaned from some trashy paperback. He felt a grin quirk up the corner of his mouth, the first in a long while.

"You're right," she said. "It would do about as much good as teaching you to be black."

"So why did Dad --" _Oh._ "Eternal mysteries of womanhood?"

"Something like that."

"Then maybe you can explain why women's jeans can't have normal sizes that a guy can figure out without a fricken slide rule."

Smirking, Missouri said, "Honey, fashion is a graduate-level mystery. We've got miles to go before we try sorting that out. Let's start with the practical stuff your father can't teach you. Get you set up with what the old department stores used to call ladies' foundations."

"That sounds a little unsettling." _Remake you from the ground up._

"Underthings. Most girls have their mamas show them what's what before there's this much to work with."

Dean ran a hand through the hair growing out from the panicked buzzcut he'd gotten. "Uh, look, Missouri, I appreciate the offer, but I can just head to the store and find my way around."

"Mmm," she said, seemingly agreeing. "You'll need to decide between plunge, balconette, minimizer, pushup, racerback, demi bra --"

"Okay, okay. Stop already. I guess I could use a native guide. Oh Jesus, that sounded like I was --"

By now Missouri was laughing so hard he figured he didn't need to finish the apology. "Oh honey, you are a _lot_ like your daddy."

This statement utterly floored him. There was no way Dean could imagine his dad stumbling and sounding as idiotic as he just had.

"Any man can sound like an idiot, Dean. When you go out in the world as a woman, that's one of the first things you'll learn." 

He wasn't certain if this was supposed to make him feel better or not. 

"I'd be happy to give you a little guidance," Missouri said, once she'd finished mocking him and the whole male sex. "I know a place where you can get a real good fitting, and some well-made bras. They aren't cheap, but it's not like your father's paying with his own money, now, is it?"

This level of intimacy with the Winchester way of life was freaking Dean out a little. "You don't have a problem with that?"

"I know the path John has followed doesn't come with a steady paycheck. But he does good work and saves people. I can overlook a little crime against the banks when I weigh the pros and cons. The same goes for you. You'll need some other supplies, too. I'm going to assume your witch gave you the full female package."

Dean nodded. "I'm assuming the same thing. What fun is a curse without, y'know, the curse? Shows what that bitch knows, though. Shark Week doesn't bother me any. I've even -- forget that. I mean _really_ forget that. What's your favorite song? Personally I'm a big fan of Led Zep's 'Ramble On.' Which is what I'm going to do until that image leaves my brain entirely."

She slid him a sly, amused look. "I'm a big girl, Dean. I do know one or two things about the world."

"How did you and my dad meet?" Dean asked. The question came out of left field even for him.

"He came to see me after the fire where you lost your mama. Poor man thought he was losing his mind, but he knew what he saw."

The connection slammed into him with such force he blurted, "'I went to Missouri and learned the truth.' It's the first sentence in Dad's journal."

The look she directed at him was a sharp one. "Have you been nosing into things you shouldn't?"

"No ma'am. It's a hunter's journal. We both use it as a reference."

Satisfied, she nodded. "Are you still intending to hunt?"

"Hell, yes. Dad still wants to find the thing that killed Mom, and I'm in this for the long haul."

"You'll need new versions of the things you wear while hunting. I've seen your father in his detective suit, which he could stand to wear more often, in my book. Anyway, you'll need the female equivalent. Office clothes, dress shoes, that sort of thing. Makeup, for occasions that call for it."

"Fuck."

She swatted him on the arm. " _Language._ " Rising from her chair, Missouri said, "Time to get the hot chocolate going. Your father's almost finished."

"How can I help?"

Missouri pointed to a door. "There's cookies in the pantry. First upper cupboard to your right, bottom shelf. Get a couple of different kinds and put them on a plate. Plates are in the first cabinet on the left."

Shrugging off his dad's jacket, Dean hung it over his chair back and headed for the cookie shelf.

***

Though Dean had been hoping to put it off until sometime between later and never, Missouri declared that bra shopping was first on the agenda. "What you're wearing underneath will make a huge difference how your clothes fit. It's worth it, and then it'll be out of the way."

At least she gave him a little time to process the news, as well as one peaceful night without the pain or terror of transformation. Breaking with the usual sleeping arrangements when they were staying with other people with limited space, Dad took the couch and let Dean have the guest bed. Dean protested that he didn't need any concessions to his current form, but Dad said, "You've been sleeping for shit for weeks, son. That's the only concession I'm making. Quit arguing, take the damn bed and enjoy it while you've got it." Dean fell asleep to the distant sound of their voices in the kitchen, reminding him of childhood. 

In the morning, Dean wandered out of the bedroom, the house so quiet he was certain he'd find the couch unoccupied and the Impala gone. But Dad was sprawled out in what Missouri called the parlor -- the waiting area for her clients, strewn with tools of her trade or props, Dean wasn't sure which. Dad seemed strangely young lying there, the parallel lines etched between his brows nearly erased. 

All at once Dean realized he'd never seen his father this way. Dad had always been their sunrise, their drill sergeant. If he was asleep after Dean and Sam awoke, he was wounded, sick or on a serious drunk, a November second drunk. Dean's response was split between retreating to leave him in privacy and standing guard over him. Knowing already which choice would piss his father off least, Dean tiptoed on to the kitchen and made coffee.

When Dad shambled into the kitchen, hair a wild mess, Dean poured him a mug of coffee and sat across the table with his own. "When are you planning to head out?" He made the question as off-hand as he could, but it sounded practiced.

"Oh, hell no, son. I'm not the leader of this expedition. I'll be right here, cleaning my guns."

"No, I didn't mean -- I guess I'm here for a while."

"Until you feel ready, whatever that takes."

"Right, so I'm sure you want to get on the road and start working some jobs."

"I'm working _this_ job," Dad said, but Dean didn't get it and it must have showed. "Being your father."

 _Had Missouri put him up to this?_ "I'm not a kid anymore. And getting a magical set of knockers didn't make me helpless all of a sudden."

"I know both of those things. Don't get your panties -- _pants_ \-- in a knot." His voice dropped into the John Winchester _don't even think of questioning me_ growl. "That's the plan." And that, as it always was, was the end of that topic.

After breakfast Dean and Missouri headed off to Kansas City for the outfitting expedition, equipped with a credit card Dad had dug from his stash bearing the ambiguous name Britt, and a newly-minted driver's license to match.

It was too much to hope for Victoria's Secret, which at least would have cheered Dean up with the model pictures around the store. Instead they went to Kansas City to a hole-in-the-wall store with headless, armless mannequins decked out in Industrial Strength Mammary Containment Systems. The store was staffed by ladies who looked old enough to be Missouri's grandmothers, with their hair dyed different shades of improbable: clown red, soft violet and Impala black. Each had a fabric tape measure draped around her neck.

Clown Red spotted them first and greeted Missouri like they'd known each other for years, and maybe they had. Red had the deep female croak of a longtime smoker, and it flitted through Dean's mind that maybe his voice could regain a little authority if he took up the habit. Abruptly Missouri jabbed him with her elbow, muttering, "If you do any such thing I will kill you myself." Then she turned a megawatt smile on Red and told her she didn't need anything today, thank you, but her young friend Britt would like a fitting. "She needs some new work clothes, and I thought we should start her off right. And she's very athletic, so she'll also want two or three sport bras, I'm thinking."

Red took the tape measure from her neck and said, "Off with the jacket, honey."

Dean stepped back. "Whoa whoa whoa. Right here in the middle of the store?"

"If you'd rather do it in the dressing room, we can do that," Red allowed. 

"Yeah, I'd rather."

She led them to a room in the back. It had more space than the ones in most stores he'd ever bought clothes in, and even a little bench. Dean peeled off the jacket.

"And the top shirt, doll," said Red. 

Dean removed it and held out his arms for her to slip the tape under. "Be gentle with me. You're my first."

Red looped the tape around him, all business. "What size do you normally wear?"

"I don't." He flinched slightly at the movement of the tape across his nipples. 

She _tsk_ ed at Dean's reckless disregard for uplift and told him "the girls" would be slapping against his knees in a few years if he didn't get with the program.

The knowledge that women called their rack "the girls" the same way men called their balls "the boys" or "the twins" made him snort, which was apparently the cue for a wave of semi-hysterical laughter to well up. He wondered if they named them like men named their dicks, and immediately dubbed his Thelma and Louise. (The slightly bigger one had to be Thelma, naturally, because of Geena Davis being six feet tall.) This forced an even louder snort from him.

"Estelle," Missouri called sweetly from outside the room, "why don't you get Britt a few bras to try on." After Estelle made her exit, Missouri asked, "Do you mind if I come in?"

Dean was too overcome to answer, so he beamed a "yes" at her, and she came in just as he sank onto the bench. 

She settled beside him. "That is pretty funny. I think I'll name mine Pam, after Pam Grier."

 _And --?_ Dean almost asked, until it hit him a heartbeat later, and he stammered out an _I didn't know_ , suddenly sobered. 

"It's okay, Dean. I weathered that, and it's been 13 years, so I get to call myself a survivor."

"Still, I feel like an ass," Dean said. "Compared to what you've been through --"

"Now hush. Weighing your suffering against mine or anyone else's is pointless. And anyway, we've had both our bodies affected by something we had no control over. We all rely on our bodies and forget there are never any guarantees they won't fail us somehow. It's hard to deal with those changes, and you haven't had much time."

Missouri's sympathy, which Dean didn't quite feel he'd earned, brought another wave of reaction crashing over him, even more mortifying than laughter. Blinking back tears, he said, "Who _does_ that, Missouri? I mean, shit, I can totally see laying a short-term whammy on me to teach me a lesson, because, yeah, I was drunk and douchy. But why make it a permanent curse?"

Missouri laid a hand on his. "Honey, people who seek out the darker magic often have something wrong with them, it's as plain and simple as that. And the more they indulge in it, the worse they get. That's why I wouldn't even call finding someone with the power to reverse it any kind of sane option."

"Yeah, with my luck, I'd end up a unicorn or a hunting buddy of Dick Cheney's or something."

Estelle rapped on the dressing room door and let herself in, carrying a stack of boxes that made Dean tired just to look at it. "This ought to get you started." Casting a dour look at the shapeless, oversized tee Dean was wearing, she said, "And I brought a camisole so you can tell how they're going to fit under clothes. You need anything, just remember: Yell for Estelle."

After she bustled out, Missouri said, "I'll be right outside too. But there are a couple of things I want to show you first. Have you ever watched a woman put on a bra? Because getting one on is a whole lot different from taking it off."

She had that right; Dean had never stuck around for the getting-the-bra-back-on part. Missouri walked him through the inside-out-backwards-upside-down-turn-flip-adjust technique, which he tried with the bra over his sloppy tee until the frustration rose to a higher level than his new modesty. "Do you mind if I flash my rack and do this right?"

"You go right ahead. There's very little I haven't seen by this point."

Once he yanked off the tee, he got the technique down and the bra cups up, then Missouri gave him a seminar on fit with a sidebar on muffining. Missouri left Dean to it once he had the hang of the on and off. Dean waded through a rising tide of cotton, polyester and high-tech ultra-wicking performance materials for what seemed to be hours, but Missouri's patience never wore thin. In fact, it seemed like she was holding court out there, receiving delighted greetings and hugs and updates. When Dean emerged, much relieved to be back in his armor of baggy tee and Dad's leather jacket, she was talking to a tall Joan Jett type with raven-wing blue-black hair almost as short as Dean's. 

"Gia, this is my friend Britt, but everyone calls her Sunny. She's got a work wardrobe to buy, and I thought we should start things off right. Sunny, this is Gia."

As Gia shook Dean's hand, her leather jacket fell open, giving him a glimpse of the black and white t-shirt below. It read, "Yeah, they're fake. My real ones tried to kill me."

"What did you think of the whole Bra Lady experience?"

Dean stammered, "Uh well, the girls have never been perkier."

Laughing, Gia said, "They're pretty damn intense, but they're life-changers. So's Missouri. Did she show you her knockers?"

He'd never realized there could be a danger of choking to death on your own spit, but Dean nearly accomplished it. He'd often wondered what the hell women talked about when they got off by themselves, but _Jesus_.

Patting him on the back, Missouri explained, "They're knitted. I make soft yarn boobs for cancer patients who have to heal before they can get prostheses, or who can't get them for some reason. They give them away here. It keeps me from piling winter scarves on all my friends."

She must have thousands of friends, Dean thought.

Gia talked Yell for Estelle into showing Dean the current stock of knitted knockers, in all sizes and shapes and, surprisingly, colors -- not just a variety of flesh tones from pinkish beige to dark brown, but lime green, sky blue and other shades beyond Dean's crayon-box frame of reference. Some even had little tattoos stitched onto them -- roses and butterflies. 

Gia showed him one with a Rolling Stones logo. "The Janice Soprano model."

Once they made it out of the store -- and Missouri hadn't lied, the total bill damn near gave him the vapors and Dean wasn't even paying the freaking thing -- she looked him over and said, "You've hit your limit, haven't you?"

Though Dean didn't want to admit it, he knew there was no point denying. "Kinda."

"Listen, bra shopping is one of the big three that sucks the energy right out of any woman, much less a new one."

"Oh god, what are the other two?"

"Jeans and swimsuits."

"But once you know your size and all, can't you just grab and go?"

He'd swear it was a pitying look she gave him. "Every manufacturer is different, and let's not get started on the ones that discontinue your favorite style."

"Is the whole industry run by demons?"

Missouri laughed. "Now, that's a theory." 

Once they were in the car, she offered to take Dean to lunch, but he was too overwhelmed, even more hyperaware of his rack now that it seemed to be taking aim at people. 

"I'd be happy with a sandwich back at your place."

Snorting, Missouri said, "They're not gonna go off, you know. Though honey, you should have seen the bullet bras in my mama's day. Those things were _fierce_. Like the tail lights of an old fin-style Cadillac."

"You mean those garage calendar pinups weren't some crazy fantasy?"

"Nope. They were architectural wonders, too. More stitching on those things than your average quilt, around and around."

"So what did they go to after those went out of style?"

She gave him a sidelong glance and a grin. "What did I wear, you mean?"

Dean blushed.

"Nothing," she said, and laughed as Dean reddened even more. "Honey, I was a hot-ass young thing with a massive Afro and it was the Age of Aquarius."

After some swift mental calculations, Dean blurted, "No way you're old enough."

"Ooh, and you're sincere. I like you more and more, Dean Winchester. My daddy always said 'black don't crack.' Not a one of the elders in my family look their age."

It seemed like getting a glimpse into another world to hear of a family that had elders. The closest thing Dean had was his dad, who was half of his family ( _all_ his family, now that Sam had ditched them). Until now, Dean hadn't even known he'd been named for his grandmother. The life he'd always known -- and loved -- suddenly seemed like the loneliest thing in the world.

As she slowed for a tollbooth, Missouri patted him twice on the knee. "Family, no matter how big, is no guarantee against loneliness. Gather family where you can, young and old."

"What does that even mean, Missouri?"

"Friends, honey. They become your family, though it takes a little time and work."

"But the way we live --"

"Then it takes more work. But work is not something you're afraid of, and it pays off. Your daddy brought you to me because I'm family to him. You remember that -- and work a little harder at it, because frankly, John neglects all his friends until he needs them or they need him. He doesn't realize it's good to spend time when there's no crisis to respond to."

"He kinda lives from crisis to crisis. Me too -- it's all I've ever known."

"Then maybe this crisis has a little bit of blessing wrapped up in it. Because it's forcing you both to slow down and take some time to focus on one another."

He looked at the scenery rushing by. There was no urgency to pull him out of himself -- no job to perform, cops to evade or emergency room to find. Landscape all covered in a quilt of snow, as if to accentuate the unaccustomed quiet in his life. "I'm worried about him," Dean said to the window.

He could feel her gaze cut over to him, her attention like a laser. "Why?"

Dean wasn't even sure how to put it into words, so he let his doubts crowd into his mind for Missuri to sort out. Everything that seemed so uncharacteristic of his dad. Dean felt like he was dragging his father down, pulling him away from the purpose he'd made for his life. That purpose was what had propped him up when everything had gone all to hell -- propped all of them up. Dean could "what if" and fantasize all he wanted about having a family with elders and dream about other shit that other people took for granted, but _this_ was the family Dean had. Dad. Dad had kept them all alive, kept them all going through his strength of will, and it scared Dean that Dad was losing that now.

"Dean," Missouri said softly. "When I first met your father, he was a very sweet man. He was devastated by losing Mary, and terrified at what happened to her and what might happen to his boys, but there was a tenderness that had made it through the war. Some of that was due to Mary, but to a large extent, that was John Winchester. It was what was in his core. Then I told him the truth about what was out there, and he built a big brick wall around that part of him so he could survive. I think what's happened to you has made him reevaluate what he had and what he gave up. What you're going through has helped him retrieve some of that tenderness."

"I don't want him coddling me like a girl."

"Don't be such a dope," she said tartly. Since she'd turned onto one of the less plowed residential streets, she left the eye-roll implied. "He's rediscovered something he needs and you've needed all along. If you reject that and let him know it, I will slap you right into next week, you hear me?"

"Speaking of the importance of tenderness."

"Hush," she said, but the affection shone through in her tone and the quirked little smile/frown she gave him.

***

When Dean trailed into the house behind Missouri, he was greeted by the smell of cooking onions and garlic, causing his stomach to let out a prolonged growl that made Missouri chuckle. 

Of all things, Dad was in the kitchen whacking away at chunks of meat with a knife, and a skillet hissed on the stove with the onions and garlic in oil. "Thought I'd make myself useful," he said as Dean and Missouri entered the kitchen. Glancing at the clock he added, "Won't be ready until dinner time, though. I thought you'd be out longer."

"Dean needed a breather," Missouri said. "I forgot how exhausting the Bra Lady experience can be for someone who's never done it." She set her purse down on the table. "What have you got going there?"

"Chili. Haven't made it in a helluva long time, but it's almost impossible to wreck."

 _Dad with a knife in his hand, and no monster in the room._ It must have been a long time, because this pinged no memories. But other memories of his dad in the kitchen came forth. Dad playing grabass with his mom as she washed dishes. Dad swaying with her in high school slow dance mode, singing along with the radio. Sitting with Dean at the table, helping Dean break in a new box of crayons, coloring the people orange and the trees purple, to his son's complete outrage.

Dean lingered in the doorway, half tempted to join him and help, but the whole scenario ws so foreign to him, he couldn't be sure that --

Missouri elbowed him in the ribs so forcefully he nearly yelped. 

"Can I help?"

Dad asked, "Did you get anything to eat while you were out?"

"No sir."

"Make yourself a sandwich, then. Cold cuts are in the fridge, peanut butter's in the pantry."

Dean hesitated, unused to raiding someone else's refrigerator.

"John Winchester," Missouri scolded, "I told you not to buy groceries. You're my guest."

Sheepish, John shrugged. "Had to go out anyway." He added a stage-whispered aside to Dean: "Woman keeps no beer in the house." 

Dean headed to the kitchen to act on his dad's suggestion, then turned to ask Missouri if she wanted anything. She had already vanished from the doorway without a sound. 

"So how was it?" Dad asked once Dean was assembling his sandwich. 

"Like she said. Intense. These Bra Ladies, they just steam right up to you with the tape measure. They'd do it right in the middle of the damn store, if you let them. Jesus." He capped the mustard and sat down with his sandwich and beer. "And some of the women who go there have breast cancer, or did. Young, some of them."

Dad nodded, but said nothing. Because, really, what could he say? 

Dean made short work of half his sandwich and washed it down with beer. "I guess the next stop is clothes and shoes and makeup." 

Chuckling, Dad said, "You sound like you'd rather tangle with a rawhead. Listen, I have a thought. Why don't you and I shop tomorrow instead?"

"Uh, no offense, Dad --" _Wait, this wasn't how you talked to John Winchester. Then again, he's asking, not ordering._ "I thought you wanted Missouri to help me pick stuff out."

Dad stirred the browning meat around in the pan. "Naw, what I meant was finding you some weapons. Your hand is smaller now, so your grip is bound to be different. You want something that feels right in your hand, that feels like an extension of you."

Dean nodded. He knew this.

"So after dinner tonight, you and I can go through the inventory in the trunk, see what still works and what needs to be replaced. That sound like a good antidote to bra shopping?" 

"Yes sir."

***

Awkward as some of his weapons now felt in his hands, Dean felt a distinct relief at handling them. This is what he knew, who he remembered himself to be.

"We'll get you outfitted, then you can get up to speed on the weapons," Daid said. "There's a range on the edge of town. We also need to put in a lot of work on the hand-to-hand. Your center of gravity is different now, and your instinctive moves are gonna work against you if you don't get them adjusted."

"Yes sir." This was a relief too: The idea that he'd have some kind of physical outlet after a day of Miss Mosely's School for Girls -- no matter how cool about it Missouri actually was -- helped him face the prospect of makeup lessons and shopping and the biological surprises awaiting him. 

"We'll go to Cabela's tomorrow and get you some good knives. The guns will take a little longer. I put a call in to Bobby; he's got a contact who can build a good, solid identity that'll stand up to the background check." 

"Don't we already -- oh."

"Exactly," Dad said wryly. "Come here and let me see your hand."

Dean was fairly sure what Dad wanted, and as he moved to stand beside him, Dad held his own right hand out, palm up, as if demanding money or car keys. Dean fit his left hand over his dad's lining up the heels of their hands. They hadn't done this since Dean was full-grown, but it had been part of their ritual when buying his first weapons. His hands had been much smaller than Dad's then. Though they hadn't done a comparison like this, Dean knew his had been a little longer, his fingers more tapered than his dad's blunt ones. Now they were narrower yet, but shorter than Dad's.

"You might do okay with a Glock 19," Dad said. "Try the .40 first and see if that's comfortable."

"Sure." 

His dad made no move to break the contact, so Dean followed his lead. Dad's hand was warm and callused against his. Dean's own calluses had been smoothed away, something he hadn't even noticed in the massive shift of his body's landscape. Some things, though, hadn't changed. The black-purple bruise under his thumbnail was still there, slowly growing out from the base of the nail. The mark had been there before the curse, same as the tiny half-moon scar on the knuckle of his ring finger. He had changed profoundly, but he still was who he was.

"I remember doing this." Dad's voice sounded odd, thick. 

"Yeah," Dean said. "My first trip to Cabela's." The place was so exciting to him and so damn big it might as well have been Disney World . 

"No. Before that." Dad let his hand drop away then. "Before -- You'd put your hand against mine, no bigger than a leaf off that damn sweet gum tree we had in the back yard."

Dean remembered that tree now; Dad hated it for the spiky pods it cast off, while Dean had been profoundly disappointed with its failure to produce actual gum.

Dad went on, "You'd always say how your hand was _almost_ as big as mine." He laughed, but there was a slight snuffle at the end. "You always were a competitive little bastard. One day I got home from work and you'd made a major discovery during the day. 'I have a penis!' you said, like your mom just bought it for you at the store. You wanted to know if I had one too. You would've whipped yours out to compare with mine, if Mary hadn't stopped you."

Dean chuckled at that. "Well, you won that one."

"I guess I did." Dad slung an arm around him then, pulling him into a bear hug. "You're gonna get through this, son. You're gonna be fine."

"Yeah," Dean said, suddenly snuffling into his dad's shirt. And for the first time, he knew this to be true.


End file.
